


A Means to an End

by Bix, deadcellredux



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Canon Fuckery, Dark Comedy, Displaced Characters, Fanon Extravaganza, Friendship, Gen, Geostigma, Illustrated, POV Multiple, Rude makes awesome sandwiches, Slice of Life, chosen family, this might be crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bix/pseuds/Bix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Meteor, things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ghost Town](https://archiveofourown.org/works/235333) by [flecksofpoppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy). 



> A big thank you to Bix, aka [perky_teacakes](http://perky_teacakes.livejournal.com) for the wonderful illustration! XD
> 
> So I totally had the MegaFlare deadline wrong, and the ending of this might seem a bit... off. But! I'm planning on fleshing this out in the future. This originally sprung from an idea I had-- what do the Turks think about Geostigma, and do they worry about contracting it? This fic has changed a lot since I first started it-- I just hope it's entertaining, at least!

Reno had never liked birds.

Things hadn’t _flown_ under the plate; there was something unsettling about creatures that could be both on the ground and above your head at once. The sounds they made were especially jarring to Reno: the sudden fluster of flapping wings, the atonal chirps and warbles.

There was one of them—a bird—on the windowsill now, staring through the dust-mottled screen— _at_ him, or perhaps _beyond_ him—he couldn’t tell exactly _what_ that inky black bead of an eye was fixed on. He stilled the movement of his fingers on the computer keyboard and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms back behind his head.

“Hey,” Reno said to the bird. It didn’t move.

“You a former resident of Midgar?”

The bird cocked its head.

“Did you have a little nest somewhere, on the plate?”

The bird shook its wings now; ruffled its feathers.

“Are you or anyone in your household currently exhibiting signs of Geostigma affliction?” Reno asked softly, sarcastically.

The bird took a few steps, claws scratching along the sill, and Reno sighed, picked up the lit cigarette smoldering in the cheap plastic ashtray next to the computer monitor, put it between his lips and tapped out the remainder of the sentence during which he had paused.

 _Case Study of Resident 146, age 37, male. Exhibited signs of supposed Mako poisoning later revealed to be Geostigma. Former residency: Sector 5, Midgar_

Reno paused again. Midgar _what_? Under-plate? Ground level? He didn’t want to write the word that hummed in his head, because it didn’t fit the purpose of their cause, didn’t help Shinra’s case much, now—but he had no choice, really, and he hit the keys--

 _slums._

  


The door to the makeshift office opened behind Reno, and the bird on the windowsill fluttered away at the sound. Reno turned, already having a feeling as to who he’d see, and he was right—

“Casual Friday?” Reno asked, chuckling to himself as he looked Rude up and down. Rude wasn’t in his suit; he was dressed in regular clothing, a sight Reno was getting more and more used to, day by day. Rude used to look strange, back _then_ , when he wore casual clothing; now he looked out-of-place when he put on the blue suit-- though Reno would never say it.

Reno mashed out the tip of his cigarette in the ashtray and went back to typing.

Rude moved to stand besides Reno’s chair, leaning a hand on the surface of the cheap plastic desk—wasn’t even a desk, so much as a _fucking picnic table_ , or something, Reno thought—and bent to look at the screen.

Reno’s eyes fixed on Rude’s hand, and his mind surged through a catalog of memories, images that overtook him in one dark, melancholy instant. All because it had _never_ been Rude’s hand on the desk, and it had _never_ been Reno sitting in the chair— _this metal folding chair_ —it had always been Rude seated in a soft, high-backed leather chair while Reno sat _on_ the desk— _that_ desk had been huge and expensive, polished wood topped with blotters and calendars and business card holders and all manner of expensive custom office supplies they never _actually_ used—except, of course, for the glass ashtrays. Reno, sitting on the desk facing Rude, legs crossed, smoking, swigging from his flask, passing it to Rude while they laughed about bullshit, discussed important things like where they’d go drink later and the new secretary’s tits and what car Rude was thinking about buying—drunk off all that energy and power and _life_ \--

“That bad, huh?” Rude asked as he scanned the screen, and Reno blinked, seeing only what was in front of him again: Rude’s hand, un-gloved, resting on a scuffed up piece of dirty plastic.

Reno leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, ignoring the twisting in his stomach while Rude read what was on the screen, scanning summaries and facts and figures gathered the old-fashioned way: painstakingly, day by day, by knocking on doors and handing out surveys, opening piles of mail containing filled-in circles and hand-written messages of hate, death-threats, pleas for monetary assistance, medicine, a cure. The sum of it all the same, day by day: _this is all your fault_.

“Yeah. Rough estimate of about twenty new cases per square mile. People love to talk about it, for sure, in _fact_ \-- a particularly lovely young lady told me today, and I quote, to ‘eat your own shit and die’.” Reno turned his head to look up at Rude’s face. “So where _you_ been all day?”

“Picking up where you left off. You’re the one who wanted to compile data.”

“Too hot outside,” Reno mumbled, though Rude knew that wasn’t it at all, but he didn’t say so, only continued—

“And then Elena conned me into grocery shopping.”

Reno laughed. “That must have been _delightful_.”

“It certainly was,” Rude said flatly. “She’s picky. Spent forty-five minutes looking at _fruit_.”

“Anybody recognize you?”

“Hell no. You think I’d go down there in _this_?” he touched one of the sleeves of Reno’s suit jacket, which was slung over the back of the chair.

“That’d probably rile folks up real good,” Reno said, and laughed. “Start a _food fight_ ,” he nudged Rude’s hip with his elbow.

Rude tried not to laugh. “You clocking out or what?”

“Yeah,” Reno sighed. “Just have to email this to Tseng.”

“What about Reeve?”

Reno made a _what-are-you-kidding-me_ noise. “Hell no. Man’s a regular downer. Don’t want him getting depressed in my Inbox.”

“He’ll be ‘getting depressed in your Inbox’ sooner or later, if the Pres—“ Rude caught himself, cleared his throat awkwardly—“if Rufus keeps us working for him.”

Reno shook his head. He sent off the reports, closed out of the program and shut down the computer, stood up and stretched. Rude could hear the _pop-crack_ of Reno’s bones; Reno normally didn’t creak like that—neither of them did, or perhaps the right word was _had_ —but then again, neither of them saw much in the way of vigorous activity these days, and it wasn’t as if Healen had a gym.

“Saw Strife today,” Reno said, abruptly.

“You went out?”

“Yeah. How do you think I encountered _eat-shit-girl_? Silly me, wearing this suit. Had to pick up smokes.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Oh,” Reno said, throwing his hands up in an exasperated gesture. “Yes, Rude. We went out for fucking lattes and discussed _poetry_ —“

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Reno said. “But what kind of question is that? I mean, we _acknowledged_ one another. But it’s like—well, would _you_ talk to him?”

“Nope,” Rude shrugged. He looked at Reno. “Might talk to Tifa, though.”

“Oh fuck you. You and your hots for them AVALANCHE bitches, I swear. Let’s get out of here.”

By here, Reno meant this room; there really weren’t many other places _to_ go outside of Healen, at this point. Reno pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged it on as he walked past Rude to the door. Rude followed, and Reno shut the door from the outside of the office, digging in a pocket for his keys with his free hand.

“You hungry?” Rude asked.

“Not really,” Reno murmured, looking through the keys. He found the one he was looking for and slipped it into the lock, turning; there was a _click_ as the bolt slid through.

“So what else happened?” Rude asked, knowing, already, that Reno was holding back.

Reno turned around and slumped against the door, facing Rude, slipping his hands in his pockets.

Rude folded his arms, waited; Reno swallowed and looked at Rude again.

“You know Strife’s got it right?”

“Got what?”

“Stigma.”

Rude’s arms fell back to his sides, his facial expression suddenly tense. Rude wasn’t often shocked; right now was one of those rare moments.

“Well, _shit_.” Rude said.

Reno stared at the floor and Rude stared at Reno until he started to speak, and as soon as he did, Rude knew that one of the many bizarre triggers in Reno’s brain had been pulled.

“I mean how does _that_ happen? Saves the fuckin’ Planet and now— it’s just fuckin’ ironic. I mean… what about us? Why don’t we have it? What if _I_ got it?” Reno bit his lip.

“I don’t think it’s contagious.”

“You don’t _know_ if it’s contagious. Listen, I got these _marks_.” Reno slid the sleeves of one arm up to expose a darkened section of scar tissue on his forearm. “ _Look_.”

Rude sighed, suppressed an eye roll. “You’ve _always_ had that.”

“It looks like it _changed_.”

“Then go to a doctor.”

“You know I don’t fuckin’ trust _doctors_ ,” Reno said. “But anyway, I mean, how come it ain’t hit any of us? Really—I mean—”

“You forget already that Rufus has it?”

Reno stared at the mark on his arm.

Rude sighed. “Karma works in odd ways. Could be Rufus is the one paying for all of Shinra’s collective _shit_.”

“Yeah,” Reno said absently. “All of us. Who _are_ we now anyway? Don’t even know why we’re still wearing these damn suits. Collecting fuckin’ _census_ data for some fuckin’ _project_ \--”

“You’re a Turk,” Rude said.

Reno glared at him. “Oh Rude don’t even _talk_ to me about—“

“And you’re wearing it because we _don’t have clothes_ ,” Rude said through gritted teeth. “When we left Midgar what did you have? A fucking duffel bag?”

Reno remembered _that_ too, in his mind’s eye; the mass panic and confusion in Midgar, that terrible red _thing_ in the sky surrounded by tendrils that seemed to grow and shift and breathe, the whole thing ready to crash down at any unknown second. How, when Tseng told him they’d be shutting down the highways, loading up Shinra cargo trucks with civilians (only as many as could fit—the rest, well, they hadn’t spoken about the rest) and convoying out of the city, Reno had run to Rude’s apartment— phone and radio signals had crashed at that point—practically pounded down the door and almost passed out from the sheer relief of finding Rude _still there_. Reno had been filled with irrational dread at the prospect that perhaps Rude had gone to HQ, taken a vehicle and left already— but there he was. Reno had pulled a pair of pants and some shirts out of Rude’s drawers for him and threw them into the only small suitcase Rude owned—when would Rude have foreseen a need to ever leave?—while Rude loaded two guns and strapped them both on. When Rude had tried to calm Reno down—impossible, as Rude’s own hands were shaking—Reno had turned from where he was ransacking Rude’s bathroom and brandished a toothbrush at him like it was a knife, saying

 _I’m not fucking leaving without you, you understand? We stay together no matter what, do you hear me?_

“Do you _hear_ me?” Rude’s voice echoed the memory. “You made a decision,” Rude continued, and Reno looked away. “You stayed. With Shinra. This—“ he said, pinching a section of Reno’s sleeve between his fingers, “is Shinra. This is you. Besides,” Rude took a breath, willed himself to calm down a bit and laughed to himself, a short noise low in his throat. “Without the suit, you just look like a punk with a bad dye job.”

“Oh fuck off,” Reno said, frowning and running a hand over his hair.

“Your roots are starting to show,” Rude said, laughing as he spoke, because even after all these years it was _so easy_ to get Reno distracted with bratty bullshit.

“Fuck off _for real_. Go wax your dome,” Reno said through a laugh. Rude snorted.

Reno took a deep breath. “Anyway— yeah. Yeah listen—if I _did_ get it—I—I don’t think—I wouldn’t want to fuckin’ live.”

Rude frowned; Reno was _really_ stuck on this Stigma shit.

“Science department’s researching a cure,” Rude offered.

“Yeah but—seeing them like that, worse than Rufus, even—“ Reno paused and furrowed his brow. “It’s not a fucking _department_ , Rude. It’s some sorry fuckers who didn’t have enough sense to get the fuck out of here and now Rufus is payin’ ‘em to fuck around with test tubes and shit,” he shook his head, looked at Rude. Rude had crossed his arms again and was giving Reno that look which said _you better get to the point or shut the fuck up._

“Who knows,” Reno continued. “If it _is_ contagious… if I _did_ get it, I wouldn’t want to live. Puking up black shit, fuckin’ _melting_ into blackness, hell, Rufus can’t even _walk_ some days. And I’d look fucked up—”

“You _usually_ look fucked up,” Rude said.

Reno sighed. “Oh, fuck you. You’re not even listening to me.”

“I _am_ listening. And you couldn’t look any worse with the Stigma than you did after Seven.”

Reno’s eyes shifted off to the side and he raised a hand to his mouth to bite at a nail.

“Besides,” Rude continued, realizing that Sector Seven probably wasn’t _the_ best topic to bring up considering Reno’s mood, “You _also_ tend to look just as fucked up after a few drinks.”

Reno relaxed, laughed a little, nail still between his teeth.

“Reno,” Rude said, and Reno relaxed against the door behind him, met Rude’s eyes for a moment before dropping them to the floor. “You _don’t_ have fucking _Geostigma._ And—” he paused for a moment, as if not entirely sure about what we was about to say. “You’re not going to _get_ Geostigma.”

After a moment of silence, Reno spoke. “Would you kill me?” Reno asked, still staring at the floor. When Rude didn’t answer, Reno looked at him.

“ _What?_ ” Rude finally said.

“If I got it and wanted to die, would you kill me?”

Rude sighed. “Yeah,” he said softly.

Reno laughed a little, his voice low, almost sounding sad. “Be that easy for you, yeah?”

“If it was what you really wanted, I’d do it.”

“How would you do it,” Reno asked, “if you had to?”

“I’d shoot you.”

Reno sighed, a joyless smile on his mouth. “Executed by my own partner,” he mused.

"Could always zap you," Rude shrugged. “With your e-mag.”

Reno smiled a little. "No thanks... ever get hit with that?"

"You hit me all the time, when we first got partnered together. Clumsy fuck."

Reno cackled. “Sorry man.”

Rude turned. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s eat something.”

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“Shut up already and eat something,” Rude said, waving a hand in the air. “You’re getting all… _bony._ ”

Reno fell into step besides him as he walked through the hallway towards the general common area of Healen, eyes cast down at the floor, shoulders hunched a bit, hands shoved in his pockets.

“And no, it wouldn’t be fucking _easy_ , you asshole,” Rude said quietly.

“Killing me?”

“Worst thing I could _imagine_. Stop talking about it.”

They looked at each other then, and it was all there, in both of their faces—fear, anxiety, defeat; the lost feeling of years spent _existing_ in modes of life now extinct, of being somewhere between _young_ and _old_ and all that came along with those two abstract concepts.

Reno patted Rude companionably on the shoulder, gently, once, before shoving his hand back in his pocket. They didn’t speak, but Rude knew what it meant—

Thank you

And perhaps beyond that— _you’re my best friend_. Deeper still— _I need you_. Mutual truths, really; because they _all_ needed one another, now, in ways they’d never thought to contemplate _before_.

Rude was glad that they’d mastered unspoken communication so early on in their partnership; it made shit like this that much easier.


	2. Chapter 2

Elena looked up at the bare walls of her room, the standard-issue cot in the corner she currently used as a bed. She let her eyes drop back down to the sheet of paper she’d laid out on her desk, picked up her pen and touched its point to the white, finally.

 _Dear Sis,_

 _It’s been a while since I wrote, I know. It’s just been hard, after this whole thing—trying to adjust and whatnot. I know the meteor was straight over Midgar, but it’s the whole world that’s been affected, somewhat, and I’m just hoping you’re okay, wherever you are. Midgar was destroyed, obviously, and home is gone, along with most everything I had, but I’ve settled in at the Healen Lodge which is like north of where Midgar was sort of, next to a settlement called Edge where there’s all these displaced people from Midgar who hate us, but whatever. I’m here with Reno, Rude, Rufus, Tseng and Reeve. Sounds like some party, huh? It’s really not at all. There’s some other medical staff here, for Rufus, but not many Shinra employees want to admit that’s who they were, nowadays, or show their faces much at all, for that matter._

 _Rufus has Geostigma. It came on really quickly, like, almost right after Meteor. It’s almost like this weird curse on Shinra, except it hit in an odd way, because none of us have it—just Rufus. Although Reno’s been getting all crazy lately with thinking that he has it. Tseng’s been spending a lot of time with Rufus; I think it’s because he must have it worse than us all, and maybe he needs something to cling to or some sort of redeeming purpose, like helping to take care of Rufus because he’s served the company for so long, and honestly I don’t even know if Tseng has anything else going on in his life at this point. I mean, I sure as hell don’t. Sad, huh?_

 _I have to admit something that I haven’t willed myself to write down yet, but I feel like now is as good a time as any considering I have absolutely nothing to fucking lose. I only know that you’re alive because of Reno. I know you knew him, and I know you two were friends. And I’m really fucking jealous of that fact, actually. I’m kind of really jealous of the fact that you had all these friends, in the Turks, while I was away at school, but whatever. One night Reno was pretty drunk, and Reno is kind of an emotional drunk sometimes, which is really funny especially when he’s around Rude, so he told me about you. And I would never betray his trust or anything because we’re all in this together because I’m a Turk, and this is all safe with me and he knows it, even though he kind of looks guilty sometimes but we don’t talk about it, even though I know he remembers and is just like “oh shit what did I say?” But I feel like telling you isn’t necessarily betraying his trust, because, we’re all connected, I guess? He told me that your death certificate was fake and that you were still alive and that I’m not supposed to know, and that you’re not supposed to know about me, or that I’m alive, or anything like that. And it was weird because Reno is kind of a scuzzy bastard sometimes but he has his own soft spots, you know? And he cares in his own way, and gets oddly emotional about the most random of things but whatever. He probably told me because I was drunk and looked sad, and he didn’t want me to look sad, because that’s how he is, sometimes. I don’t know. You knew him better than I do, I guess. You knew him a hell of a lot better. And that really bothers me too._

 _So, like I said about Reno, he told me that you were alive, but I kind of think that telling me was as much for HIS sake as it was for mine. Like, him and Rude are close I guess, but they've got nobody else. I think they miss everybody. Now more than ever sometimes, they'll sit and talk about "old times" and all the other Turks (so I mean that's like, REALLY old times), and times when Tseng apparently could loosen the hell up (damn do I wish you were around so I could hear about THAT!). I think something really terrible must have happened to Tseng, which he doesn't talk about with any of us. To tell the truth he started to change after that whole Temple of the Ancients thing (and for the record, he NEVER TOOK ME TO DINNER! I know, I know, I’m terrible… just trying to be funny, here… ☺). But anyway, when Reno and Rude sit around and reminisce, sometimes I want to laugh at them because they're like two cranky old men at a bar. Well they kind of ARE two cranky old men at a bar. And I want to laugh, because they’re funny, but then I want to cry because I remember how things used to be, and it's so different now, because it's like something’s missing from them. From all of us, actually._

 _And as for that, how things used to be-- I remember how it used to be too, in Midgar, and I'm really kind of avoiding that whole situation because I can't even begin to tell you how terrifying it was. I still wake up, sometimes, all the time really, in the middle of the night thinking I'm about to die and I have to run to the window to make sure there's not a huge meteor hovering over Edge._

 _I just hope you’re okay. I guess my point is that I feel more alone now than I ever have in my life. Because I can’t see you, and everything is fucked up, and I feel purposeless and meaningless and Tseng is just not really interested in me I guess. And Reno and Rude are kind of the closest friends I’ve ever had but it’s not the same knowing that you’re out there, and I’m admitting that to myself now, that I know that you’re out there, but I’ll probably never know where or why or how. And that everything I’ve had with Shinra, everything I did as a Turk and my relationships with Reno and Rude and Tseng and Rufus are nothing, really—just scratches on the surface of something that’s run so so so deep between them all, and with you, and I just feel so left out of it and solitary, especially since as soon as things were starting to feel comfortable, everything gets fucking destroyed._

 _I don’t really know what to do with myself. I’m not worried about getting Geostigma, even though I deal with people who have it all day long, because Reeve has us all doing census work for this new project he’s working on. Oh Reeve, always trying to do good things. Was he always like that? Well, I shouldn’t say that, because not EVERTYHING he’s done has been stellar, but lately… it seems like everyone is trying to make up for something, and I don’t know if it’s true remorse, or just because there’s no other option now. But anyway, the Geostigma thing—dear gods, I hope you don’t have it. I really, really hope you don’t have it. I wish you could tell me that you didn’t have it, but I’ll never know, will I? At least you know that I’m not infected, and I’m not really concerned about getting infected because I don’t think it’s contagious. Although with the way Reno fucking blathers on about it sometimes, I’m surprised I’m not worried about it too._

 _I have so much else to say, but it’s all kind of meaningless now. We’ve really got next to nothing. It’s just sad. I just can’t believe I had these grandiose dreams of being a Turk and rising up to do something important for Shinra and being remembered and now, it’s like I’m already a fucking ghost. A nobody, turned a rookie, turned back to nobody._

 _I guess I have friends at least, right?._

 _I love you. I hope you’re okay._

 _Elena._

Elena put her pen back on the desk and flexed her aching fingers. She didn’t bother to read the letter over; she merely picked it up and folded it neatly, placed it in a drawer alongside all the others, some torn and yellowed. All unsent.


	3. Chapter 3

It was really the waiting that made it unbearable, the feeling that perhaps Tseng was at the mercy of some power he couldn’t control. A power which now oversaw Rufus Shinra in the same way that Rufus had once overseen his own constituents; except Rufus had never wrapped his people in bandages as they wasted away, prodded them with needles, evaluated them with all the cold insight of numbered checklists of symptoms and graphed vital signs on each day closer to their deaths.

 _Or perhaps_ —Tseng thought sometimes, in his darker moments— _that’s how it really was all along_.

The nurse—a younger man from Shinra’s medical department, looking for all the world as if he was terrified out of his mind— took the thermometer from Rufus’ mouth, looked at it and made a notation on a messy stack of papers on his clipboard.

“Still a slight fever,” the nurse said.

“I’m freezing,” Rufus mumbled. He was in his bed beneath at least two layers of blankets; the heat in the room had been cranked up to high. Tseng himself was wearing an uncharacteristically sleeveless shirt, having anticipated the temperature; besides, there was no need for a suit anymore, especially not at moments like this.

Tseng felt a droplet of sweat roll down the back of his neck and shifted uncomfortably, pulling his hair back to tie it in a loose ponytail.

The nurse picked up Rufus’ wrist and felt for the pulse—Rufus avoided eye contact as the nurse spoke.

“Are you feeling dizzy today?”

Rufus’ answer was caustic, clipped. “No.”

“Have you vomited today?”

Hesitant, now. “Yes.”

“What was, the, ah, color?”

Rufus closed his eyes and didn’t answer.

“Sir,” the nurse said, turning to Tseng. “Without compliance, we can’t get anywhere. The patient is—“

“You can use his name, you know,” Tseng said, feeling something like uncomfortable fury beginning to muddle in his stomach. “Instead of. _Patient_.”

"Oh, I just didn't know if, what—"

"What to call him?" Tseng said, sharp and confrontational. "His name is _Rufus_. Have you forgotten?" he asked, a sneer of condescension edging his deceptively level tone.

The nurse shifted uncomfortably, looked down at his clipboard; Tseng was proven to have the type of stare that could make a person cry.

"I'm sorry, sir, ah—Rufus is showing no change. His vitals are okay, but ah, really, if he doesn’t tell us what is going on, then we can’t help as much as we’d like.”

Tseng nodded slowly, crossed his arms. “Rufus,” he said, “could you please tell this _nice_ nurse here, the nature of your—“ there was just no way to put this eloquently—“vomit.”

Rufus laughed; the sound was a faint echo of something once strong. “This is bullshit,” he murmured.

Tseng closed his eyes.

“Sir?” the question came quiet and meek as the nurse looked back and forth from Tseng to Rufus and then back to Tseng, who had opened his eyes, fixed the nurse once again with that _look_.

“We’ll be fine for now, thank you. If you would leave, please.”

The nurse hesitated, looking as if he were about to speak.

“I _said_ leave.” Tseng said, nodding towards the door.

The nurse stuffed the clipboard under his arm and looked back and forth again between Rufus and Tseng before making a swift exit.

After the door to Rufus’ room had been shut, Tseng rubbed his hand over his face, then over his hair. The soft sound of his fingers moving against the strands was the only sound in the room until Tseng spoke.

“You really haven’t changed, sir,” he said. “Still acting like a brat.”

“Would _you_ want to talk about your fucking _puke_?” Rufus asked. “It doesn’t matter. What does it matter?”

“That language doesn’t suit you,” Tseng said, rummaging through Rufus’ nightstand drawer for the notebook and pen he kept there. “And you know better than to say that this doesn’t matter. You need to let them examine you, _really_ examine you. I can’t be the only one who you let _touch_ you, sir. I’m not a doctor.”

"I don't trust them," Rufus said, in reference to the straggler employees who made up the scant remaining staff of Shinra Medical. "What reason do they have to help? I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re _trying_ to kill me.”

"Right now the good of what remains of Shinra is resting on the need to find a cure for this," Tseng said softly. "You need to set an example; your first priority should be to make amends here. If the people see that you’re willing to submit your body to science in the interest of alleviating suffering, you should earn some admiration.” Tseng sighed. “And if these doctors chose to stay with the Company at this point, I doubt there's need to worry. Besides," he said, sitting down in the folding chair next to Rufus’ bed, "If we _were_ faced with a situation in which there were a question of foul motive or loyalty, I'm sure the Turks wouldn't mind having a job to take care of." his mouth curved in a bit of a smile.

"I guess you're right," Rufus sighed.

"I'm _always_ right," Tseng said with a smirk.

Rufus laughed. "Yeah, yeah."

“Listen,” Tseng said. “Let me look at you.”

Rufus sat up slowly in bed, pushing the covers down; he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, as anything more had become uncomfortable while he was prone between rough sheets and wool blankets. Dark marks mottled sections of his skin like the shadows of stretched spiders, and several bandages wrapped around his body— an arm, his chest, his face. The bandage around his forearm was stained through with faint dots of black.

"We need to change that," Tseng said, nodding at the soiled bandage.

Tseng stood as Rufus got out of bed; Rufus moved a bit slower than he would have had he been healthy, but nonetheless without difficulty. He stretched for a minute, wincing a bit, and then stood facing Tseng, who looked over Rufus’ body with eyes that lacked disgust or judgment.

“My eye hurts today,” Rufus said abruptly, and Tseng furrowed his brow as he stepped closer and gently brushed Rufus' hair out of his face where it covered the bandage over his eye.

Rufus shivered from the touch. "So cold in here," he mumbled, and Tseng peeled the tape away and lifted the bandage off, gently, with fingers that felt cool and strange against Rufus’ face.

Tseng then looked Rufus in the eye that was going bad; it was strange, knowing that he must look to Rufus as if he were staring straight through him. In comparison to the good eye, this one was glassier and dull; a nearly hair-thin ribbon of black had begun winding across the white.

"Can you see me?" Tseng asked, “with this one alone?”

"You’re a bit blurry."

"More blurry than last time?"

"I think so."

"Hmm," Tseng said, and dropped the bandage in the garbage. "You might as well just leave that off," he said. “Nothing _really_ wrong with your eye, yet.”

"That black thing in it is grotesque," Rufus said absently, taking a few steps across the room to look out of the window on the parallel wall. The world—even with the lack of color in the outskirts of Midgar’s skeleton—seemed beautiful, inviting almost, but Rufus knew going outside would be terrible, if anyone ever _really_ saw him—

"Have you seen the news lately?" Rufus asked. He could hear the faint movement of Tseng’s pen against the pages of the notebook, writing down any and all detail of Rufus’ changing condition for the purpose of curiosity and a mistrust of doctors, hoping to keep this cohesive log of changes and progression going for as long as possible, until things got better or until it became helpful or— until the _other_.

"Not today, sir," Tseng said, abruptly

“Do you _want_ to see the news?”

“Not particularly. How do you feel, walking around right now?”

“Weak. They shot me up with something to keep the fever from going up, but I just feel—” Rufus’ voice trailed off, and he stared out the window for another few moments before turning around to look at Tseng, who was seated patiently in the folding chair again, legs crossed, notebook in his lap, eyes fixed on Rufus.

"Why are you doing this?" Rufus asked, finally.

Tseng shifted, tapped the end of his pen rapidly against the splayed pages of the notebook. "Well _that's_ a silly question, sir."

"Why?"

“Are you really serious?" Tseng asked, genuinely perplexed.

Rufus didn’t answer.

“I’ve known you since you were a teenager,” Tseng said. “I’ve tried to offer you some sort of guidance, for most of your life—” he paused, because the words were difficult to form, and Tseng didn’t often _say_ things like this, hardly _ever_ , unless someone was about to _die_ —and there it was again, _death_ —“and I’ve been nothing but loyal to you and to this Company, and—”

“Is it because you’ve nothing else?” Rufus’ voice was level and heavy in a way that indicated a masked emotion behind it, struggling towards the surface of the sound.

“No,” Tseng said, and it was the honest truth, because—he looked up at Rufus.

“I haven’t lost _everything_ , sir,” Tseng said, his voice a bit more strained than he had intended.

Rufus looked away again, towards the window, and Tseng looked down at the notebook, the words there, his own neat handwriting in dated row after dated row after dated row. Days passing, now, with nothing else except this living space shared with the other human bits of Shinra’s refuse, a dying legacy scorned by the broken world it once claimed to serve.

"I’m scared to touch anyone,” Rufus said calmly, as if he were repeating to himself a fact he’d just discovered.

"Rufus," Tseng said, and stood up. Rufus looked up at the warm and unfamiliar sound of his name, slightly startled. It was rare that Tseng referred to him as anything but _sir_ , but then again, Rufus supposed, it wasn’t quite necessary, nowadays.

Tseng dropped the notebook and pen onto the chair; he could hear the pen roll off and clatter to the ground as he reached out to put a hand on Rufus' shoulder. He pulled Rufus closer, shifted forward and wrapped an arm across Rufus' back, felt the shoulder blades there, Rufus' frame, proud and solid and matching Tseng in height, now feeling suddenly fragile, like a hollow-boned bird. He felt Rufus tense, heard his voice catch in his throat as if he were about to say something; Tseng leaned in close, next to his face.

"Scientific studies prove that touch is an essential human need," Tseng said quietly into Rufus' ear, keeping his voice as clinical and detached as possible. "You'll go insane if you're deprived of it."

“So you…”

“Would you rather I send Reno to give you a daily cuddle?” Tseng said, and Rufus laughed, short and quiet and weak. “It’s not contagious. And if it is, well, fuck it. _Rufus_ ,” Tseng said again, felt Rufus lean his head down, press his forehead, fever-hot, to Tseng’s bare shoulder.

Tseng could feel Rufus' fist clenching tight on a handful of Tseng's shirt, and Tseng raised his other hand to rest on Rufus’ chest, bare and hot and slightly damp with sweat. They stood like that, not-quite-embracing, breath coming oh-so-loud and close, and Tseng turned his head slightly to push his face into Rufus’ soft hair, closed his eyes as he inhaled.

Rufus smelled clean and fresh and _alive_. He smelled nothing like death or sickness; just shampoo and soap and clean sweat.

"You're not going to die," Tseng said, and for the first time in a while his voice felt unsteady. His lip brushed against Rufus’ ear, and Rufus gasped, muscles tensed as he wrapped his other arm around Tseng’s body. "You’re strong. Stay calm.”

Rufus pulled back, then, looked down at his body and let go of Tseng to roughly pull the dirty bandage from his forearm. He tossed it into the garbage pail by the bed and pointed at the delicate trails of black threading through his forearm, slightly shiny with the remnants of the Stigma’s secretions. " _This_ ," he said, pointing to the black, " _grew_. Can you write it down? We need to keep track. Maybe there’s a pattern in the way that it spreads," and his voice was breathless, hopeful as he looked at Tseng again, his eyes wider, clearer; even the _dull_ eye had seemed to brighten.

Tseng nodded and composed himself, picked the notebook back up and turned back to the latest page with slightly trembling hands. He scrawled down the dated notation. “I’ll get a camera,” he said. “We’ll take pictures of this. They don’t take pictures do they?”

“Of course not. They do nothing of use,” Rufus said contemptuously. “Look at this,” he said, and he held his arm out to Tseng.

Tseng slid his hands over Rufus’ skin, turning Rufus’ arm gently in his hands as he followed the trails of the black lines there. “It might be fascinating,” Rufus said, “if not so terrifying.”

Tseng nodded, his eyes meeting Rufus’ before looking back down to the Stigma, the touch of his fingers against Rufus’ skin that of someone who knew nothing of medicine but desired, somehow, to heal.


	4. Chapter 4

Rude rummaged through the cabinets, digging around in the bizarre mix of just-bought food (arranged painstakingly, no doubt, by Elena) and the old, dusty containers of military-issue rations which she’d left there in the way for some unknown reason. The packages and their labeling were familiar to Rude, though he hadn’t seen them in what felt like ages; memories of being in the field at a place like Gongaga’s surrounding forest now felt like a fuzzy fragment of a half-recalled dream.

Behind him in the common room, Reno was talking to Elena about _something_ —some anonymous letter Tseng had received from _somebody_ ; the conversation had started because Elena said she had been writing, and when Reno prodded further she only said it was _a letter_ and wouldn’t reveal to whom or why. Eventually the subject had changed, because Reno, of course, wanted to talk—

“And _then_ the guy said that at first he’d considered joining SOLDIER, but then he figured, ‘well, I better get my head checked’—“

Rude pulled out an old container of dried meat from the shelf and read the label. _ALL NECESSARY NUTRIENTS!_ It read. _FIT FOR A SOLDIER—SHINRA STRONG!_

“…and it eventually got around to the fact that this letter was really about just asking what _happened_ to all the SOLDIERS. Where did they go, and whatnot. I mean, where _did_ they go, anyway?”

“Do you guys want mayonnaise?” Rude interrupted in a flat tone.

“No thank you,” was Elena’s immediate answer; Reno paused for a moment as if he were thinking.

“Yeah”, Reno decided. “You know, speaking of SOLDIERS, never mind _them_. Imagine if some of Hojo’s experiments were still alive somewhere in Midgar? What if _that_ shit surfaced? Could you imagine…”

Rude drowned out Reno’s ramblings to think to himself as he put the ration container back in its place in the cabinet and turned his attention to the sandwiches he was making. He thought for a second about the earlier conversation he had with Reno—if one could even _call_ it a conversation—about Geostigma, about death. He contemplated Reno’s current state—Reno _was_ rather thin; in fact he’d seemed to have _lost_ weight since the destruction of Midgar; though it wasn’t as if either of them had been working out or anything, so it was probably just muscle mass—but what if Reno’s hypochondria were actually based in some unknown truth? What if Geostigma attacked those with weak immune systems? Reno couldn’t _possibly_ be healthy; all of that smoking and drinking and that lack of eating, probably—the only explanation for why he’d be _so fucking skinny_. Rude frowned, dipped a spoon into the jar of mayonnaise and scooped out an overly large glob. He slapped it onto the bread of Reno’s sandwich, spread it; it was too much, but it didn’t matter. That shit was fattening. Reno needed it.

Elena, he thought, seemed fine.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Rude said, slicing a thick sandwich in half.

“Eh,” Reno said. Rude could hear him pushing things around in the fridge; then the rattle-pop sound of two bottles being opened.

“I’m starving! Beer, Rude?” Elena asked.

“Sure.”

There was a noise behind the door to the common area; the door opened to reveal Tseng, looking somewhat tired but still sharp and aware; somehow looking put-together despite the fact that he wasn’t in his suit. Something about him had always seemed uncannily neat; Reno used to joke that he’d give Rude a thousand gil if either one of them ever spotted food stuck between Tseng’s teeth. Alarmingly enough, however, Tseng was starting to show signs of age; he looked _tired_ above all, and Rude could bet that Reno was most likely searching with all the predatory determination of a hawk for the first gray hair to appear on Tseng’s head.

“It _is_ Casual Friday!” Reno exclaimed, having noted Tseng’s attire. “Fuck this, I’m getting in my jammies.” He took a swig from his beer and set it down on the countertop with a clatter before walking past Tseng out of the room.

“Good afternoon,” Tseng sighed.

“Hello,” Elena said cheerfully as Rude nodded at Tseng.

“You better come back and eat this sandwich,” Rude called after Reno.

Tseng gave Rude a curious look before opening up the cabinets with a determined look on his face.

“What are you looking for?” Rude asked.

“Tea,” Tseng said absently.

“I bought your favorite, sir,” Elena said. She moved besides Tseng to reach up into the cabinet, pushing his hands away. “I’ll get it,” she said softly, an eager smile on her face.

“Thank you,” Tseng said, and nodded at her with the type of forced smile that made it obvious that there were more pressing issues on his mind. He reached onto an adjacent shelf and took out two mugs, then took the box of tea from Elena, who had already pulled off the plastic wrap. Tseng opened the teabags, placed them into the mugs; turned on the stove beneath the teakettle he had left half-full with water.

“Is that for Rufus?” Elena asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” Tseng said. He pulled out the band holding back his hair, let it fall against his shoulders. “Good sign, no? Asking for things,” he continued, absently.

“Hey boss,” Reno said as he swaggered back into the common room, wearing polka-dotted pajama pants and a novelty t-shirt reading _ASK ME ABOUT MY HUGE MATERIA_. Rude recognized the terribly gaudy thing; couldn’t remember _when_ Reno had received it or whom it was who had bought such a _tasteless_ thing for him. It didn’t matter now; it was a gag gift turned ironic mockery; Reno being Reno of _course_ would have kept such a thing.

Rude couldn’t keep his eyes off the shirt as he handed Reno his plate; Reno sat down on the couch and stretched out. Elena picked up her plate and began to eat at the counter; Rude couldn’t help but notice that she still always chose to stay unusually close to Tseng.

“Reno,” Tseng said with a sigh, turning around to lean back against the countertop. “How are you?”

“Fucking peachy,” Reno said, sharp and sarcastic around a bite of sandwich. “Hey, you want a sandwich? Apparently Rude’s on housewife duty.”

“I’m fine,” Tseng replied, “but I appreciate Rude’s versatility. Did you send me your most recent report?”

“Yeah,” Reno said, sucking a bit of mayonnaise off of his finger. “Just now. Rude, how much mayo is _on_ this shit?”

“Eat it,” Rude said. “It’s good for you.”

“Anything different?” Tseng asked.

“Boss, come on,” Reno said, leaning back against the couch. “I’m off the fuckin’ clock.” He pushed and prodded at the uneaten half of his sandwich; Rude grunted and Reno picked it up to take another reluctant bite.

“This is _delicious,_ ” Elena said joyously, already halfway through her meal. “I was so hungry. Rude, you make awesome sandwiches.”

“Why thank you,” Rude said proudly. “Enjoy”.

“Reno,” Tseng continued, his tone of voice changing in a curious manner, “Did—“ he paused. “Did _Scarlet_ get you that awful shirt?”

“Yeah,” Reno said. “Was a birthday gift a few years back.”

Tseng nodded, picked up a mug of tea and looked down into it. “It’s your birthday next week, isn’t it?”

Elena looked up and Reno paused with his sandwich halfway towards his open mouth, startled by the question.

“Uh. Yes, actually.” Reno said, somehow unable to answer Tseng's question in a way that _didn’t_ make him sound like a nervous new recruit all over again. “Tuesday”.

“Thirty,” Rude said, before any questions regarding _how old are you now_ could be asked.

Reno turned to Rude in open-mouthed horror, apparently indignant at this reveal of his age. He took a breath in preparation to speak, but Tseng beat him to it—

“It’s _really_ been that long, hasn’t it? Don’t look so upset. Being in your thirties isn’t so bad,” Tseng grinned at Reno as he took a sip of his tea.

Reno stared at Tseng, open mouthed and wide eyed. Reno couldn’t _help_ being terrified; if there was anything on the Planet that could _really_ frighten Reno, it was _Tseng_ being _sentimental_. Reno was about to ask Tseng if he wasn’t feeling well, but Elena interjected.

“The big three-oh! Wow Reno, you’re getting old, huh?”

“Dear _gods_ ,” Reno said, rolling his eyes. “Did you have to go and get her started?”

“I can bake a cake,” Elena said, sounding hopeful. “What kind you like again?”

Rude’s shoulders were shaking with the laughter he was stifling into the fist he had pressed against his mouth. “Shut up,” Reno said. “What’s _with_ you fuckin’ people?”

He went to take another bite of his sandwich, paused and looked at Elena.

“Chocolate,” he mumbled, before directing his attention back to the sandwich.

“How’s Rufus today?” Elena asked as the aura of mirth died down, and Tseng looked down into his mug again, a thoughtful expression on his face. His hair fell across his shoulders, loosely shrouding part of his face.

"No change," Tseng lied. He turned the mug in his hands, thinking about Rufus’ arm, the marks that had expanded there.

“Must be difficult,” Reno said, not looking at Rude. He ate the last piece of crust from the bread on his plate. “Taking care of someone like that. Must be taxing.”

Rude remembered Reno, after the plate drop in Seven, the first time Reno admitted weakness to him, _true_ weakness, when Reno, with one useless arm, had said _it hurts, can you help me_ , and Rude had to help him undress, change bandages and tend to wounds. Rude remembered how Reno had bit his lip and kept his eyes averted the whole time, as if he didn’t want to accept this, didn’t want to admit this loss of control, loss of agency, loss of command over his own body. Rude had been gentle, then, had placed a hand on Reno’s shoulder in his best expression of a _hug_ , said quietly to Reno, _it’s okay_.

Elena sat down next to Reno on the couch, having finished her sandwich and placing her dish neatly in the sink. She leaned back, looked up at the ceiling and crossed her arms behind her head.

"It's fucked up," she muttered. “Poor Rufus. This Geostigma thing—is there any cure?”

“I suppose we’ll find out, eventually,” Tseng responded.

Reno casually threw an arm around Elena’s shoulders, pulled her close and shook her in a chummy gesture. "Don't worry. It bothers me too."

Rude eyed this exchange curiously—Reno? Offering comfort? Perhaps his partner _was_ getting sick. He walked over and sat down on the couch on the other side of Reno, tried to make himself comfortable as he took a sip of his beer.

"I just don't know," Elena said, "what to do sometimes.”

"Hard to occupy yourself nowadays, yeah?" Reno asked. "I've got an idea. You could go do something useful and woman-like. Like my laundry. Sound good, sweetie?" he hooked his elbow around her neck, tilted his face to look her in the eye and ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth.

Rude shook his head. Reno _was_ fine after all.

Elena rolled her eyes. “You look like a rapist when you smile like that,” she said, and pushed Reno’s arm off of her shoulders. He laughed. “And you owe me a pack of cigarettes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Reno muttered, fishing around in the pocket of his pajama pants for the unopened pack he had purchased and tossing it to Elena, who caught it in one hand. “Had them ready. Knew you’d start nagging.”

“Thanks,” Elena said, pulling one out and putting it to her lips. Reno already had his lighter out, waiting; he lit her cigarette and she inhaled, leaning back against the couch again.

“I was serious,” Reno said awkwardly, pulling his own pack out and lighting a cigarette. He inhaled, blew out smoke around the words as he spoke. “About it bothering me.”

“I know,” Elena said. “I know it bothers you. I think it bothers us all.”

Rude was beginning to feel uncomfortable; nowadays conversations between them always seemed to gravitate back towards the unpleasant. It was almost as if there was no common ground to find between them besides _that_ , that topic of Rufus and disease and _what do we do now?_ Rude suddenly felt a strange exhaustion come over him; he wanted nothing more than to take a nap, alone; he and Reno had been sharing a room and a bed at Healen because there just wasn’t enough space, and the thought of sleeping alone for a few glorious hours seemed brilliant.

Sleep itself was difficult, however; sometimes Rude would wake up in the middle of the night thinking he was still in Midgar, wonder for a moment why he didn’t hear any noise, wonder what the hell was going on and then he’d feel it, the weight of someone’s body next to him in the bed, look over the mini-mountain range of pillows at his back—set up “to prevent involuntary spooning,” as Reno had put it—and see Reno there, sleeping in that bizarre way he had, on his side with his arms crossed, snoring, hair everywhere. And Rude would relax, because they were alone here, and even though Reno was the worst roommate imaginable, he was _there_ , and it was enough. Even if Reno _was_ a slob—would it really kill him to just rinse out the sink after shaving?—and even if his hair did get _everywhere—_

Rude peeled a long red hair from where it was static-clung to the couch next to his leg. Maybe sleeping with Reno wasn’t so bad after all, because sometimes the dreams and the atmosphere in Healen were a bit much to take. He thought about lying down in there alone, in a near-empty room with bare walls without another _person_ besides him, and willed himself to find the energy to stay awake.

Elena had turned on the television; the default news channel flickered on. Two reporters sat a desk, the news studio situated somewhere indeterminate, though Rude suspected it was probably a broadcast from Junon.

“…disgraced former President of the Shinra Electric Power Company is making moves to fund a restoration project for the displaced citizens of Midgar’s ruins.”

Tseng stilled the hand that had been stirring his tea; the sound of metal scraping gently against porcelain ceased abruptly as he froze and stared at the television.

"Well he's not _moving_ much nowadays is he," the other reporter replied, and the both of them laughed.

Tension sprung in the room. The four Turks stared at the television, watching, motionless; Reno eyed the remote, but no one moved to change the channel. Doing so would admit defeat, weakness, the inability to deal with what they had become, the mocking display in plain view on the screen.

“We’ve got a clip from an earlier interview with Reeve Tuesti, former Director of Shinra’s Urban Development team. Can we go to that clip?” the reporter’s eyes darted around at something inderteminate before the image on the screen changed from the interior of a flawless studio to the ruins of Midgar, Reeve standing there in the center of the screen with nervous eyes, his gaze darting back and forth at the spectators who had no doubt gathered to watch.

“Looks a mess,” Reno said, breaking the tense silence. Elena slapped him absently with the back of her hand, her eyes fixed on the screen.

“The World Regenesis Project is working—“ Reeve paused as garbage flew across the screen in his general direction; taunts and curses followed suit, faintly from offscreen. “Working to rebuild what’s left of Midgar. The fruit of this project is Edge, a settlement just outside the ruins—“

"And this, you say, is being funded by Rufus Shinra?" the news reporter interrupted, shoving the microphone back into Reeve’s face.

"Yes. For his people. Shinra is trying to assist with reparations—" he paused again as off-screen jeers grew louder, as a piece of what looked like Midgar’s metal debris hit him in the arm, thrown from an off-screen protestor. “Reparations for what was caused,” Reeve finished, nodding his head. He looked into the camera with nervous eyes. The recording cut back to the live studio, and Tseng looked away.

“I’ll be going now,” he said quietly.

He picked up the other mug and left the room, pushing the door softly closed behind him.

“Can you turn that shit _off_ ,” Reno finally said. He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, crossing his arms and looking as if he were trying to insulate himself from all of the world surrounding him.

“Sorry,” Elena mumbled, fumbling with the remote. The television sputtered off. “That was bad.”

“Yeah it’s fuckin’ _bad_ ,” Reno said. “ _Fuck_.”

Elena looked down at the hands she had folded in her lap.

“Do you guys want to go out later?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Reno responded, almost instantly. “There’s that bar down there on the outskirts. Dumbfucks don’t even know who we are.”

Rude sighed heavily.

“You don’t want to come, Rude?” Elena asked.

“I’ll go,” Rude grumbled reluctantly.

“Okay, well—I guess I’ll go take a shower, then,” Elena said, standing up from the couch. She forced a smile at Reno and Rude and moved towards the door. “See you guys in an hour,” she concluded, and left.

“I’m wearing these fucking clothes to the bar,” Reno said contemptuously.

“ _Don’t_ wear that shit,” Rude growled. “You got a death wish?”

“Fine,” Reno sighed. He sounded defeated; his eyes were closed, head leaning back against the couch, arms crossed loosely over his lap.

They sat like that, for a few moments, in silence.

“I wonder how much time he’s got,” Reno finally said. The comment came from out of nowhere, abrupt; considering what Reno had witnessed earlier in the day, Rude wasn’t quite sure if Reno was referring to Rufus or Cloud.

“No use dwelling,” Rude said.

“Yeah.”

Rude thought about the television, the news reports documenting Stigma cases, deaths, poverty, attempts to rebuild; Shinra as savior, as demon. Reno idly fidgeted with his own arm, looked down at it, the bare length of skin exposed up to the edge of his ratty t-shirt.

Rude watched his partner, the way he obsessively inspected his own flesh in search of marks, darkness, _anything_ new that might signify the beginnings of Geostigma. When Reno leaned his head back again Rude was still watching, looking at Reno's skin, and he picked up Reno's left hand in his. Reno barely flinched, met Rude's eyes for a second and then closed them with a soft sigh.

"Are you proposing?" Reno mumbled with a laugh.

Rude grunted in response and inspected Reno's hand. It looked ten years older than the rest of Reno; rough, scarred knuckles and skin marked with electrical burns, fingernails bitten down so short they looked almost raw. Rude was awfully familiar with Reno’s left hand; it was the hand he held his e-mag with, the hand he lit his cigarettes with, the hand that had passed countless beers to Rude.

Rude knew Reno’s hand so well that he even knew how many freckles were on the back. Spots just below the knuckles, faintly pigmented.

Rude counted them, hesitantly. There were still only three.

“We’re going to be okay,” Rude said quietly. He let go of Reno’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrible at titles, and I had NO idea what to call this. While writing, I had my iTunes on shuffle and "A Means to an End" by Joy Division came on. The [lyrics kind of creepily fit this fic in a REALLY abstract way](http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/59120/), so... yeah. That's really the only reason for this title.


End file.
